


House Rule #27

by neevebrody



Category: Dawson's Creek, Thoughtcrimes (2003)
Genre: Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 14:09:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neevebrody/pseuds/neevebrody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So it's the weekend and he's sitting here in his underwear (because it's already the hottest fucking summer on record), holed up in the spare-bedroom-turned-study, buried in paper that smells like Trask's office and his stodgy cigars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	House Rule #27

Vincent pages through the pleadings file in the Freemont Mills case, checking his research against the allegations and letting out an exasperated sigh. He's done this so many times over the past few hours he's beginning to sound like a leaky tire. Two weeks into a summer clerkship with the uptown firm of Brandt & Williamson and Gordon Trask has charged him with drafting an important reply brief.

The brief is due next week, of course. God forbid, Trask would get off the phone with his "investment managers" (who also happen to frequent the local pony tracks) or stop trying to screw his secretary long enough to hand off a file in a timely manner. Like it or not, Vince is learning a well-guarded tenet of law: lawyers never do much of anything of import until a deadline is about to bite them on the ass.

So it's the weekend and he's sitting here in his underwear (because it's already the hottest fucking summer on record), holed up in the spare-bedroom-turned-study, buried in paper that smells like Trask's office and his stodgy cigars. The apartment's air conditioning unit whines away in a useless effort to keep up with the heat wave, and joined by the whirr of the oscillating fan, shuffling air around in a lazy to and fro. Though it's still early and he's had his first shower of the day, the heat leaves a sheen on his skin. It's not like working outside with the sun beating down and the ocean spray in his face; it's more that boxed-in, clammy feeling he gets from his windowless closet at the firm. Not an office – the term office is way above its station.

He looks up briefly when Brendan enters the room and feels a little pang of what weekends used to be like, or even summers for that matter. Cutting his eyes from paragraph 124 of the second amended complaint, he notices Brendan hovering by the bookcase. Brendan's been great about everything – the long hours, study groups, Vince's absence - supportive for the most part and often, annoyingly mother-hennish. Vince would love a break, maybe go back to bed, but he's finally wrapped his head around the injunction strategy and found a few good points of law to use as a counter argument. If he stops now...

"Bren, what the fuck…"

Brendan hauls him up out of the chair and with just a few quick moves has Vince bent over the desk and stripped of his boxers. It reminds Vince of the prudish self-assurance and strength that first attracted him. Not that he couldn't go toe-to-toe if he wanted, but give a guy some warning. Seriously… what the fuck?

"No questions, just spread 'em," is Brendan's gruff reply.

"Yeah, I love that dirty cop talk, baby." Vince holds his ground in that "make me" stance, and Brendan does, wedging a knee between Vincent's legs. "Hey!"

Brendan doesn't say a word. He pushes Vince's arms up, forcing him forward even more.

"Jesus… I get it, okay—I've been at this for hours, but—"

"Just do as I say." Brendan's breath across the back of his neck cuts Vince off. He hears the wooden swivel chair squeak as Brendan sits down.

"You know, there are easier ways to get me to take a break," Vince says. "Asking is always good."

"You think this is amusing—do I sound amused to you?"

He searches for a snappy comeback, something worthy of Bren's really awful Joe Pesci, but it's too late. He's already derailed by the special attention Brendan's now giving his bare ass.

"This is serious business," Brendan adds, as if he thinks more justification is needed.

Vince grins. Usually this sort of 'business' involves the good Agent Dean's handcuffs… or neckties. Though he's a little disappointed at not hearing the clink and jingle of the shiny metal bracelets, he complies, settling down onto the mound of paperwork. "Mmmm, probably more favorable ways of getting laid, too," he offers.

His response is the sting of Brendan's teeth right to meaty part of one well-kneaded cheek. And, yeah… it hurts so good. Justified or not, it doesn't take much more than that to get Vince interested. But when he reaches for Brendan, he's rebuffed, his arm shoved back up on the desk. Oh, so it _is_ going to be that kind of ride.

Vince's cock stiffens as other thoughts join the muddle of overworked jargon in his brain. Thoughts of how many times he's felt Brendan's hands like this: determined, on a mission, smoothing over his skin, fingertips pressing in hard as Brendan spreads the flesh apart. Vince chews the inside of his lip to bite back a moan; he's thinking now of the tiny bruises fingers can leave. Sometimes, Vince doesn't even bother to hide them. But this seems different… there's something more to this. He's certain he knows what's next, even as the anticipation of it blazes up in the pit of his stomach. He wipes sweat from his forehead and waits. He waits for Brendan's thumbs to stop circling, waits for Brendan to lock on his target, and…

Fuck! There is it – the flick of Brendan's tongue – like a live wire. A warm and wet spiral teasing until Vince is flat on the desk, back arched, and pushing back into Brendan's face.

"Jesus Christ—what…"

He loses it when Brendan spears his tongue inside again, fucking him with it until he does that curling thing, making Vince grind his toes into the carpet. Brendan picks now to start talking, babbling something about rules and not letting Vince get away with something. He might have even heard what it is he's supposed to have done, except that Brendan reaches up between Vince's legs and puts his hot, sweaty hand around Vince's hard cock.

And now, whatever it is, Vince is past caring. He figures anything that gets him this kind of tongue-lashing he'll happily do again anyway. Moving his hips, getting lost in Brendan's rhythm – tongue, hand, tongue – he feels something else nudging his hole. Something blunt and hard. Oh, sweet Christ!

Brendan's finger slips inside, slow and easy, twisting and probing. At the same time, he's still licking the puckered skin and jacking Vince. A triple threat! One that blurs the edges of the room and tugs Vince inward toward his own dark places. For a few dizzying moments, he forgets where he is. What's a brief? An injunction for what? What the fuck is his name, for chrissakes? He can't say and he doesn't give a shit as Brendan grazes his sweet spot. He doesn't care that there's nothing but colored stars swirling behind his eyelids or that his knees are beginning to buckle. He just wants one more finger and for Brendan not to stop. Not now, not ever.

He chokes out Brendan's name with the breach of another digit and hot breath across his balls. He's going to come; he can feel the little ripples building to a swell, threatening to crest and crash over him as Brendan strips his cock faster. "Fuck, Bren… wait," he gasps. "My notes…"

Nearly going ass over teacups as Brendan turns him around, Vince struggles to right himself; he stares down at his flushed cock. The way Brendan gazes up at him, Vince has to grab it and squeeze hard. He'd like for this to last, but Bren looks so damn good with a fat dick in his face, so good flicking his tongue out that way, barely touching, making Vince crazy.

"You goddamn tease," Vince growls, helpless to keep from spanking his cock over those puffy red lips. Two can play this teasing game, he thinks, but as he starts to stroke himself, he can't keep his eyes off Brendan's mouth and any thought of taking control here blows away in another sweep of warm air. Brendan's still got that hard, put out look, but he's not fooling anyone. He loves this. Christ, Bren was born to suck cock. A long lick here, another flick there to the knot of nerves underneath, those lips pursed around the darkened tip, and Vince is about three pumps away from glory. Fuck yeah, right there.

The force of it rocks Vince up on the balls of his feet; his hips jerk, bending him forward with spasms that leave him weak and trying to get enough air back into his lungs so he won't pass out. His head spins like the fan blades, displacing the incoherent nothings on his tongue, blowing them across the room as Brendan takes hold of Vincent's cock and milks him dry, licking come from the swollen, sensitive head until it hurts.

He shudders one last time, thighs trembling uncontrollably, before making Brendan stop. Vince watches him wipe off on the tail of his tee shirt. "You wanna explain that?" he asks, grinning stupidly, his ears still ringing.

Brendan doesn't return the grin; he doesn't even look cordial. Hell, you make a guy come as hard as Vince just did, you should at least look cordial, smug even. All Brendan does is cock his head, like Vince knows the answer already. "House Rule #27," he says, which explains absolutely nothing. House Rule #27 is code for _totally made up shit_. They use it whenever one of them is about to impose yet another ad-hoc law.

Offering nothing more, and with that famous Dean efficiency, Brendan leans back in the chair and pulls down his shorts. His stiff cock snags the material and then bounces back, causing Vince to groan a little in the back of his throat. Apparently, this rule has a reciprocity clause, and as much as Vince is looking forward to complying, Brendan's face remains as solemn as a sphinx.

"What?"

"Like you can eat the last banana fudge pop and _not_ suffer the consequences?"

Vince takes a moment. His first instinct is to deny – maybe he can convince Brendan that he ate the last one himself and doesn't remember. Then he glances at the wastebasket beside the desk, where incriminating evidence sits atop a mound of crumpled, yellow legal sheets. He's dead in the water and knows it. Maybe he can ask for mercy. Not that Brendan seems inclined to grant him any, though leaving the empty box in the freezer might have more to do with that than Brendan's inclinations.

"I was saving that, Vince! And you knew it."

It's true. He doesn't recall when, but Brendan did call dibs for life on the last banana fudge pop in the box. Only, who gets dibs for life? And should Vince even point out that eating his ass is probably not the most effective form of deterrent? He looks at Brendan, trapped by that ghost of a smile fluttering at the corner of his mouth… Dibs? For life…? Yeah, he's totally callin' it.

He leans closer, his hand going for Brendan's lap, mouth zeroing in for a kiss. Brendan's lips are swollen and sweet, like ripe fruit, with a dusky taste on his tongue that leaves an ache in Vincent's heart.

Fuck the brief; it'll have to wait, all night if necessary. Vince has _consequences_. And when he breaks away from those lips, the fiery flicker in Brendan's eyes nixes any thought of mercy.

Oh, what the hell; maybe he'll just get on his knees and do a little begging anyway.


End file.
